Exist
by Rifa
Summary: A soon to be collection of one shots concerning black mages. Find the meaning of existance. Rated for Violence and Gore and stafety. Update! Shattering Mirrors: When the dark messenger starts his plan, can he repeat his master's mistakes?
1. To Rescue

Disclaimer: You know the drill, I don't own anything that square owns. Though I doubt Square would want to sue me anyways.

A/N: Ahh, Rifa's back with a horribly confusing and creepy one shot! And I am hoping to create this into a collection of black mage (and perhaps genome…) one shots. All just based off of ideas, thoughts, experiments, and late nights. This one to start with, I'll warn you, was written in the dead of night while I was tired. So I apologize now if it makes no sense. I will also say that the mages in this are horribly violent and have a incredible vocabulary. Just enjoy it for what it is, okay?

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To Rescue...

New eyes burn into the surroundings. Senses increasingly dull, the creature's fingers shake from their position on the ground. A growing, throbbing pain forming into the side of his head, the creature lies almost lifeless but somehow far from death.

An uneven set of ribs rise with his breath, his lips and face soaked in unfamiliar liquid. Unseeing eyes blink against the substance and the dust falling down around him. The pain increasing in his left temple, the black mage lies in a pile of rubble.

His limbs shake as he pushes himself upright. His head casts down, letting the watery red liquid drip from his hidden face. Hands shaking uncontrollably, he reaches for his left temple to find a wound, dripping down onto his rain and mud soaked coat, a large lump forming slowly underneath. He lets his hands fall into the rubble, the white cotton soaked with his own blood. He stares down into the nothingness, limbs limp like a rag doll resting in the middle of a battle field.

The rain runs down the front of his hat and drips onto his soaked garments. Sound drifting through, only now noticeable but hardly interesting. The sounds of rain, wind, screams, fire, lightning, shouts, battle cries…. And the occasional sound of a tumbling structure. With sense slowly returning, the mage lifts his head and surveys his surroundings. Buildings had crumbled. Magic was being cast from afar. Soldiers of every sort dashed and marched with no interest in the sitting mage.

Remembering his squad the mage rises on shaken bones, the ground uneven and unstable beneath him. Oblivious to the terror that surrounded him, the mage glances around to find the rest of his squad. Had they left him? He lets his dead eyes turn onto the fallen building behind him from which he had risen. Ancient carved stone lay in ruin, covered in the uniform of battle: water, mud and blood. As he looks he sees his squad, their dead, unmoving hands lying out from the rubble. A torn leg stuck out there, a crushed torso there… The squad was gone.

Shed from orders, the mages turns away to see the battle. Soldiers fell under the casting hands of his brethren everywhere. Electrical currents, inner flames and ice, poisoning, and the few combined spells that brought on deadly and gruesome effects upon the targets. Few mages fell, some had continued on missing limbs, one with a spear lodged deep into his shoulder. But few were falling. The cries of the soldiers and civilians rang out everywhere, letting guilt and sorrow creep into the mage's unfeeling heart. Seeing eye to eye with the loss, the mage's dark conscious becoming corrupt with this new emotion. Loss. The loss of his squad. The loss of life. Life.

Brain still dull, the mage continues his watch from afar. The other mages bodies seemed to move without thought, without purpose, as if strings had fallen onto them from the darkened clouds of mist and rain. Another explosion rings and another building falls. The mage watches as his comrades are taken into the rubble, as they collapse inhumanly under the rock.

Without much thought himself, the mage strides into the battle fray. Rain creating rivers of brown and red under his feet, his eyes remain locked onto the mages and their constant stream of magic, faces lost under the cloak of bleak blackness, roaming the battle like grim reapers. If only his brethren knew of what they were doing, the loss they were creating, the despair and darkness. If only he could find a way to stop it….

Standing within the formation the mage watches his dead brothers. All empty eyed and cold, with no mercy or rests coming to their constant slaughter. The mages eyes not much warmer, he tries to think of what could stop them, how he could save them from the guilt that was piercing him. He feels a stream of blood trickle down from his temple as he moves on. Without notice or interest, the barely woken puppet wanders into a building that still stands.

The building screams silence as he enters, with nothing but dead littering the inside. Passing over the bodies without feel the mage passes into the next room, following the sound of a small whimper. The next room is completed destroyed from struggle and pillage, the body of an armed soldier lies from a sword wound, before the corpse lies a still live mage whimpering and choking in pain and fear, blood oozing from a large wound through the middle. The wounded mage upon seeing the new observer, makes a painful noise of either familiarity or fear. The mage twists around the wound, gasping and groaning, his eyes shining pitifully in the dark room.

The mage wonders just how many people this wounded mage had killed. What guilt had been slapped upon him? The mages eyes widen, his hands shake. A new realization hits him painfully close to his bleeding temple. The wounded mage groans louder, organs attempting to function within him. In a trance, the dark minded mage moves towards his brother and extends his hand. The wounded gazes up, innocent eyes twisted in pain and confusion. From the hand help is released in the form of a chokingly sharp electrical current. It erupts within the fallen mage, his mouth releases a shrill scream of sudden pain as all the muscles within his possession shake violently with the current, the spasms passing through like waves, clothing starting to burn away as his mutated heart destroys itself from the voltage.

The body lays still, clothing tinged and the smell of magic and charred flesh fresh in the air. The mage drops his hand. His brother no longer cried in pain, no longer released the devastating magic currents upon the innocent. His brother had been rescued. With that the mage set a new mission for himself: rescue and relieve every black mage he could. A barely present guilt for previous slaughter hanging over the mage, he feels joy knowing that this black mage would not feel that guilt.

Within an unrecorded time frame, the mage had set out on his new mission. Temple throbbing and emotions running cold, clothes hanging heavy under the rain of the misty sky, the mud of the alien earth and the blood of himself and his brothers. His eyes shone bright but cold, filled with as much life as death. Gloves slowly turned red as daylight drew slowly near.

Entire squads of mages fell. Some under a blazing fire set inside of their bodies, licking and burning away their organ and mist filled insides. Others had their bones frozen from inside, and shattered from the impact of the stone streets. Flames blazing on every bit of wood inside the city, the mage continued his traitorous genocide. Brother after brother falling beneath the fear of guilt. Or was their guilt? Was there even fear? Emotions had vanished long ago, so the extermination continued without purpose. Perhaps it was just in his nature. But nature was such a foreign word to the spawn of the mist. Was it the bleeding temple? Madness? Corruption? Who knew? No one…

A sliver of light appeared as another mage fell to a experimental spell, a mix of water and lightning, trapping the target in a bubble of water and electrocuting it, sending the electricity through the water and deep into the heart. The target mage fell upon the ground like a wet sac of meat, and the killer moved on without thought. Daylight breaking in, illuminating the now quiet battlefield, most of the ally soldiers retreated and few of the mages stayed back to eliminate any survivors. The battlefield was silent save for the mages footsteps and the gentle drips of rain.

Eyes grown heavy and exhausted from the slaughtering, the mage ached with fatigue but had no intention of resting as he pressed on. Blood dried on his temple and bones groaning, pain resides within the cold mage, his body shivering from the cold soaked clothing that the mage was sewn into. Ears straining to hear the littlest whisper of breath, he follows the trail of sound like a bloodhound pursuing its prey.

Most of the buildings lie in ruin, great statures toppled over, ancient culture lost in a day and a night. Sitting upon the rubble sits a weary black mage, innocent eyes watching the approaching mage as he cradles a wrecked and bloody arm. The cold eyed killer closes in, but loses his instinct as he sees warmth within the eyes. The two mages stared at each other, unable to communicate their similarity, terror and life for the other. Two brother reapers soaked in innocent blood, gazing at each other in the bronze glow of morning.

The warm one opens his mouth to speak. "Are they all gone? All the soldiers?"

The cold mage stares, unable to commute the sudden ability of speech in another mage, especially words of innocence and not of death and spells. He swallows back fluid and answers "Some have remained to kill the last of the survivors. They slaughter the innocent. Cold blooded and dark eyed…."

The other sighs, "Humans. Why do they kill each other? What's the point? Aren't they the same? I don't understand why humans would do such things…"

Cold eyes stare up from the darkness, "I meant the black mages."

Shocked and uneasy the other gasps "What?"

Without hesitance or encouragement the sharp cold voice continues, "The black mages. Slaughtering the lives of innocent, unknowing of the guilt that will befall them the moment they arise, the guilt that will cling to them… Such acts should not go unchallenged and unpunished. With my own hand…" a blood soaked glove rises to be stared at by two sets of glowing eyes, one with passion the other with sick confusion.

Lump growing in his throat, the crippled but whole mage cuts in, "S-slaughter? Guilt? I'm sure this is true but… what can one do? After all, you understand don't you? They did not do this knowingly. They did not think or move themselves, they walked like dead weights, and eyes empty, I thought the dead were walking… They were not alive as we are now. They should not be punished!"

"Madness!" The cold one shouted, "How would they feel? How would they feel when they became alive like you and me, once they see that they sent so many to the butcher's block? Once they see that they did not walk of free will!"

"They!" The other cried, feeling a little more brave, "…will feel… the way I do. Yes there is guilt, and feeling that your body is not your own! As if we were raped and stolen of out freedom and minds."

"Guilt!" The killer black mage advanced onto the crippled mage, standing now inches from him and towering above "They will feel guilt! And it will drive them into madness! I ended their pain! I rescued them from this fate! My brothers, all of which I could, were rescued. I ended the slaughter of the innocent! I ended any chance of guilt and pain! I did it."

The other remained silent, allowing the words to pour over him. A dark shadow was cast down from the mage above him who was now shaking with rage, his eyes narrowed into cruel yellow slits. Trembling, the mage dares speak: "You… you dare… call them brothers? The mages, you killed… you dare call them your brothers! You speak of the end of innocent slaughter while that is all you've done! You killed your own! You are covered in the innocent blood of you brothers! You think this is some noble cause? Do you think that you are justified? You are wrong! Wrong! YOU slaughtered the innocent! You slaughtered your _brothers_!"

Both mages shook, wet from the rain, eyes blazing into each other. Raged filled each, magic screamed to be released from inside of them. One more thing could release it all…

Tears of fear and sorrow streaming down, the crippled mage's voice cracks:

"You… have become human…"

A gasping scream escapes the mouth of a mage, magic overpowering the two sides. Both engulfed by the fires of their own rage.

Somewhere later and far away, mages lived in peace, in fear of humans. And humans lived in fear of mages. Both, were the victims and the cause. Somewhere far across time to come, a war may break out, a war based on the foundation of fear… a war that would cause only fear and the loss of many more innocent.

And across time and space, brothers of this war will erupt, everyone is the innocent and everyone…

…is the killer.

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I doubt that ending made sense.

Anyways, if you read this far please leave a review for me! I live off them.

And keep a lookout for updates, I may add more one shots…


	2. Shattering Mirrors

A/N: Another one shot to excite the senses. Um, this one shot is pretty, disturbing, just to warn you. It has been something that has lingered in my mind for some time now, and I hope you enjoy it.

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Shattering Mirrors

The boy trembled, curled tight into a corner of the darkened room. Lit torches sent erratic flashes of light flickering onto the stonewalls around him, luminating the various contraptions he wished he had not owned. He heard his breath quicken, his sweat running cold, trembling, as he listened to the rasping choking breaths of the abomination.

Lying out of sight he heard it try to breathe with its fresh and bloody lungs. The man hid his face into his blood-covered hands, strands of sliver caught in his shaking fingers. His eyes burned and his throat closed in fear and pure disgust of himself. In disgust of what he had done. He tightened the close of his eyes, forcing back the thought of tears. His pale body trembled and rocked, the cold sweat dripping off his face and onto his bare legs. The shapeless shirt worn over his usual garments soaked in essential fluids. Clutching his temples with breaking fingernails, it's hard to imagine himself as the great power he wished to become. A far image from what he hoped his name would one day induce in the minds of others.

But regardless of what he wished or hoped, he found himself walking the path he had vowed never to stride. Images of his 'master' flashing in his mind, he feels sick to his stomach, to know that he had just taken the first step towards becoming that creature's mirror, to mirror the actions that were responsible for his life, his pain… his creation. Stomach twisting the boy curses his creation, and reasons with himself, this was going to be the first step towards power, towards Garland's downfall… But the cold stab of the past digs deep, was he, Kuja, going to repeat Garland's actions? The man who had created him for one purpose and one purpose alone of which he had fled with great difficulty, the man that had brought him to a life of self-loathing, misery, and uselessness… The things that he had felt, the pain of being used, of having a life picked out for you before you could breathe on your own, and the simple unbearable feeling of knowing that you are a product… Would he bring these feelings to another? Become as horrible of his creator?

The stench of mist-flesh hanging fresh in the air, Kuja eases his still-innocent eyes open to let his gaze fall onto the wet floor. Reflecting pools of blood, water, chemicals… the torches continued their raging light inside the dark prison. The boy feels a distant feeling of compassion and sadness for the creature he hears choking on air nearby. Removing an unsteady pair of heeled boots from his shaking legs, the boy stands, wet and blood staining his bare feet as he moves towards the table.

Torches raged fire above the table, a thick cloud surrounding the mass upon the surface. Shaky, the boy bumps into the side table littered with instruments and materials set and placed, all ringing softly as they fall onto each other. Terran instruments and chemicals are scattered throughout the room, Gaian substances bubble in vials as old texts tell of forgotten magical techniques of the dark. Mist thick enough to choke rages about the table while the rest of the room is haunted with various product gases. The choking breath is louder now under the Iifa's mutating and creating cloud, 'ancient tree of life' indeed, for it worked hard creating various organs and flesh…

His slender fingers trembled as the mist slowly diminishes. It becomes absorbed by the mass on the table, the rasping breaths quicken more so. The sounds of bones forming and organs running emerge within Kuja ears. He holds his breath as the last of the mist disappears. As his ice blue eyes fall onto the creation Kuja feels a sudden sick fear within him and quick turn of the stomach. Without much warning he turns his head to the side as his stomach empties itself onto the already soiled floor. After the last cascades from his mouth and the remains of sick and pepsin is spat, Kuja turns his sweat-covered face back to the table.

It was worse than he had anticipated. The mist, has he had planned, had only made a partial creature. A mass of essential organs barely pieced together lies in a mound on the table. Lungs, a heart, stomach, throat, brain and others, covered only with minimal amounts of flesh and muscle, no skin held the mass together, only the small connections of organs and bones. Kuja felt the burn of tears, but somehow held it back, focusing instead on the growing lump in his throat. He had never imagined that it would be this painful to go through with this. As the mound, or more correctly, creature, upon the table let out what seemed to be a whimper, a sound somewhere between pain and helplessness. Against his will, Kuja felt sorry for the being, and decided that there was no difference between the creature and him… both thrown into the world for selfish reasons, both in pain, both confused, both completely helpless to the truth of their existence.

Kuja stands for a moment in silence, beads of sweat start to run down his face, his lip and fingers tremble. Within his mind he imagines himself as the creature on the table, only, not in the dusty deserts of Gaia, but in the bitter cold laboratories of Terra. Lying incomplete and helpless, with a shadow of a creator pouring over him. He raises a delicate hand to his temple as his eyes squeeze tight, trying to drill the image out of his mind….

And with a sudden wave of numbness and determination, Kuja sets off to work on his creation. Slowly perfecting the organs, adding muscle tissues and flesh where needed, strengthening bones… The creation whimpers once again as its hands, nothing more than bloody flesh on bones, begin to shake and tremble. Worried that the being might try to move more, Kuja restrains the creation's hands with previously installed leather straps. Biting back feelings of guilt Kuja continues in his work, desperate to complete his prototype.

As he slowly stitches lungs together with almost maternal care, he tells himself that if he can go through with this, nothing can stop him. He will put his past behind him; make himself what he wants to be, and not the image within a creators mind. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he could close up his former self, his helpless and painful self, within this meat puppet, and never have to face his demons again. He could become the puppet master with the world as his stage; he would pull the strings as he had already planned, to create a magnificent show for his pleasure alone. He would be in control of his destiny and no longer a pawn of rusted clockwork.

Hours of work proceeded without the end in sight, it would take weeks to complete his prototype. But, with the little sympathy he hoped to lose, Kuja had worked as his creation's head and face first. The small puppet was to be modeled after an ancient form of Gaian mage. His prototype was small but would fit the bill. After shaping his features and tweaking most of the pre-made brain, Kuja began to stitch on a hat he had made earlier in the black mage fashion. As he did so, he recited every step of his plan, and slowly destroyed the man within himself, and trapped it into the creation before him. Its breaths had become calmer as Kuja let one hand stroke the beings face almost lovingly. With a mixture of compassion, bitterness and hatred, Kuja promised the small being that his life would not be meaningless and it would not be long. He promised it a portion of himself, the part he hated most, so that Kuja could succeed in killing his past.

Once the stitches were all in place, the hat drooped comfortably onto the puppet's head. With a small amount of compassion, Kuja cast a never-ending darkness into the being's face, so his shame would never be seen. The creator let his eyes fall with sadness as he waved a hand to complete the spell upon the being's face. As the darkness fell over the prototype's face, his eyes shot open and shone with an everlasting gaze of bitter piercing yellow unseeing to the cruel world he was being thrown into…..

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A/N: So how was that? Interesting to see Kuja act, human, eh? And of course we all know that Kuja doesn't succeed in killing off his prototype, since we do see Vivi in the game afterall. Anyways, if you have braved through the fic, please, please, please, leave a review! I appreciate every comment I get! Thanks for reading! 


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